Weeds
by demondreaming
Summary: "Do you regret it? Us." Cat's fingers twist at the tip of her ponytail, voice quiet. "Honestly? Yes." Cat/Jade. Rated M.


**Disclaimer: Victorious will be mine, once I get that plastic surgery to look like Dan Schneider.**

/

"Do you regret it?"

I press against the door with my fingertips, waiting for that metallic click of the latch, before I turn to Cat. "Regret what?"

She shrugs, narrow shoulders shifting under the straps of her pink tank top. "This." She looks down at herself, gaze dropping to her feet. "Us." Her fingers twist at the tip of her ponytail, voice quiet.

"Honestly?" I run my eyes over her slim figure. She looks so tiny when she's quiet, when she's serious. Whenever I picture her in my head, smiling, laughing, she's huge. She's bigger than all of us. The rest of us might be stars, but she's a firework. "Yes."

Her lips twitch, a held breath escaping from them. Her shoulders dip even lower, hands linked in front of her, wringing and twisting like she's trying to slip off her skin. To take off her gloves of flesh and strip down to bone.

I know she doesn't regret it. What we do. She doesn't regret anything. Cat springs into everything without a trace of doubt, of hesitation. She manages to convince herself that everything is great, everything is perfect, and that the only way she'll ever feel is the way she does now. It's an admirable quality, but it's stupid.

There are always consequences. Every action has a ripple, and I'm still waiting to see how far this one spreads. I've dipped a toe, and Cat's cannonballed in.

"Why are you here then?" Her fingers twitch as I take them, pulling them apart from each other. Her nails are bitten to the quick, polish the colour of butter spread on them, chipped and gnawed at. She's anxious. I never really noticed before.

"Just because I regret it doesn't mean I don't enjoy it. You're my favourite vice, Cat." I smirk at her, dropping her hands. She smooths them over her stomach, like I've left some stain on them she's trying to wipe off. "The better question is; why are you here?"

Cat's mouth twists, eyes downcast. She flinches when my hand finds her cheek, fingertips stroking the soft skin. She doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. Cat's body has more relevance than her words ever do, and it tells me all I need to know. She's here because she loves me. She always has.

I've known about her little crush from the first day we met, and her eyes skipped straight past Beck to me. Her smile had flickered, tongue wetting her lips, and when she spoke, it was straight to me, even though it was Beck who'd said hello. It was one of the many things Tori complained about; that I let Cat drape herself over Beck while Tori couldn't even glance at him without getting yelled at. She never understood that Cat wasn't a threat to me like she was. The only reason Cat'd kiss Beck would be to get a taste of me. And now that Beck's gone, I've stopped pruning Cat's little crush, and let it blossom. I've watered it with kisses and sweet touches, and she's bloomed into love. But flowers are so fragile, and Cat was never strong to begin with. She's a weed that I'm going to have to crush sooner or later, but right now, I'm enjoying her scent. Even weeds can be pretty.

She kisses me with a quiet fervency, eyes shut tight. Her hands are warm on my back, pressing me into her, into her tightly strung body. She holds it so tight against me, like if only she'd press hard enough, we'd stick. Like she's hoping I'll hear the message her heart is beating for me. I've already heard it in her hands, her breath, the throbbing pulse in her inner thighs. She's a language I pretend I don't speak.

I steer her back towards the bed, Cat's bare feet stuttering over the carpet in tiny steps. We don't speak much. It's the only time she's quiet, when her heart tugs her head out of the clouds she permanently resides in. She talks in touch; she'll hold my hand, press her lips to my skin, curl herself against me. The only thing in her mind is me, and it hurts to speak heartbeats. So she keeps her mouth shut, something that I'm thankful for. Cat's lips are much better at shaping kisses than words.

She stumbles back, landing on the bed heavily. Cat's face is flushed, lips swollen from my attentions. She removes her tank top almost mechanically, fingers fumbling over the button of her shorts before she wiggles out of them too. It's a dance she's memorised the steps of, but it lacks the clumsy passion of the first time she tried it. She was all bleeding softness that first time. Wide-eyed awe and quiet gasps. She chanted my name like it was a prayer, fingers curled in my sheets, pulse pounding a hard rhythm through her body. Her skin had tasted like hope, like innocence, like milk and pearls and snow. Everything pure and white and untouched. Virgin. She's slush now, stained and dirtied. When she's nothing but cold mud, I'll scrape her away.

That's not to say I don't care about her. I suppose I do, in my own way. It's why I regret this, why I regret her, afterwards. She's in love with me, and I'm just passing the time. She might be a weed in my garden, but she's the only thing growing right now. She's easy, and she's safe, and she can't hurt me. She's Cat, and she couldn't even hurt a fly. And when I rip her out, roots and all, it's going to break her. That's the part I regret. That every time I let another flower bloom, another leaf unfurl, it's more of her to kill. I'm already poisoning her slowly. The neatly folded tank top and shorts at the end of my bed are proof of that. I don't make her fingers shake anymore.

Her lips still do, though. They tremble with a half-spoken word that I don't let her get out, crushing my lips to hers until she has to break away with a wet sound just to gasp a breath. Her eyes flick over my face, fingertips hovering over my collarbones from where I'm perched over her. She lets out a broken breath, scooting away from the edge of the bed, until she's propped up by the pillows, waiting. It's my turn to strip. My top comes off easily enough, dark locks spilling over my shoulder, a stripe of blue threaded through. I lower myself to the bed, working on unlacing my heavy boots. Cat plays with a loose strand of her hair, twisting it between her fingers. She's watching me. She always does. But this time her eyes don't crawl over every inch of exposed skin, cold fingers of sight caressing every curve.

Maybe she regrets this too. Or she's starting to.

I tug a boot off, foot propped on my knee. The other comes off after a short struggle, thudding heavily onto the carpet. I stand to undo my black jeans, fingers stroking the cold metal button when a touch stops me. Cat's crawled over to the edge of the bed, legs folded underneath her. Her hands crawl over mine, tugging them away from the button. "I want to." She says quietly, raising herself up a little. Her fingernails nip at my skin as she pops the button open, thumb and forefinger dragging the zip down slowly.

Her hand hovers for a moment over my exposed underwear, as if there's more she'd like to do, more she'd like to undo. She draws her hand back, lowering herself again. "There." She says it with an echo of her usual brightness, like it's a magic trick she's just performed, but it hasn't gone quite the way she planned. Like she's pulled a rabbit out of her hat, but it isn't breathing.

I shimmy out of the tight denim, Cat reclining back on the bed, face turned away from me. She tugs her hair loose out of its tight ponytail, ruby locks spilling down her back and pooling on the pillow. Her hair smells like strawberries, like a dream I can half-remember. It tickles my nose when I lay down beside her. She doesn't move, shoulderblades cutting her back. She's waiting for me. She always does, but this time it's not a challenge for her. She's not quivering and nervous, and maybe it's just because we've done this thing so many times. Suddenly this all feels so punctual, so cold, and I wonder if it's because of her. If it's because she's holding back. I need her love to warm me up. I need her soft gasps and sharp fingernails and hot mouth. I need her eager, I need her bright and bouncy and Cat. She might be a weed, but she's the only one I've let grow. I'm not ready to have her wilt and die yet. To wither under my touch.

"I didn't mean it." I kiss her shoulder. "I don't regret you." It's partly true. I don't regret her being the one I'm doing this with. It's my part in all this that I regret.

"You don't?" There's a thread of hope in her voice, a little ray of sunshine that's creeping through her closed curtains. She rolls over to face me, a trace of a smile on her pink lips. I shake my head slightly, and it's enough. Cat kisses me with melting lips, and it's another fragrant bud to hold to my nose. Her heart races under my fingertips, following the path my hand takes. Down over the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip.

Cat's hand finds me first, slipping under the waistband of my underwear brusquely. She skips all pretence of foreplay, rubbing furiously.

She couldn't wait.

I break the kiss to sob a breath, jerking under her touch. My fingers stumble to catch up to her, slipping beneath her lacy underwear clumsily. She's caught me off guard, and her fingers are deft enough to know where to touch me by now. She unravels me with gentle strokes. My hand feels heavy in comparison, stiff and rusted. She moans all the same, though. Soft little sounds that are almost like sobs. I bite mine back. All Cat gets is my breath, unsteady against her neck.

This is nothing like the first time. It's a shadow, a shade. If kissing her the first time was the coming of spring, we're heading into winter now. Maybe I'm just waiting for the snow to start falling.

As good as she feels, as warm and soft and yielding as she is, there's something missing. Her fingers are technical, her kisses planted precisely. It's all too automatic. She's nothing more than a sex toy, and I'm wondering why that's a problem to me. That's exactly what I wanted her to be. It was never her heart I needed, only her lips, her hands, her skin. I never needed her insides. My interest in her was skin deep and nothing more.

My hips buck forward, Cat's lips on my neck, wet. It feels like more now.

My fingers stumble in their strokes, a shudder running up along my spine. Cat renews her efforts, a little grunt escaping her. She's trying so hard to finish this.

My teeth sink into my lip when I come, muscles tightening. A shred of a moan leaks out, staining my lips, and Cat kisses it away gently, her own soft shudder short in coming. And it was all faded. The petals are dropping from her flowers, and it's too soon. It's far too soon. She was a weed, but she only ever grew because I tended her. And is it still a weed if you want it to grow?

"Say it." I pant, fingers still working inside her underwear, harder. Like maybe I can kickstart her. Maybe I can bring back the brightness, maybe I can bring back her heart. She loves me, I know she does. I've seen it in every glance she's ever given me, I've felt it in every kiss. She loves me.

She does.

"Say it." I repeat myself, hand still rubbing her. Cat shivers, eyebrows digging down.

"S-say what?" She lets out a soft cry, hips jerking.

"That you love me. I know you do."

Cat's lips twitch, eyes opening. She stills my hand, fingers tight on my wrist. She scans my face, eyes narrowing slightly as her gaze locks onto mine. Her tongue runs out over her lips, the beginnings of a smile forming. "But I don't." Her smile grows wider. "I don't, Jade."

I blink. "No, no... you do. I know you do. It's okay, Cat, really."

"I don't love you. Didn't you know that?"

"Cat..." She is a weed. A noxious, poisonous weed that's killed everything else. That's sunk its roots down deep, and disguised its toxicity with a pretty flower and a sweet smell. She's a weed that grew in me. She did love me, I know she did. She... she had to. All the little smiles. The little kisses. The little touches. All the little things that pointed to that one big thing. I was sure that's what she added up to. Maybe I just scooped the heart right out of her. Maybe I kept it locked up so long it atrophied. Or maybe it was never her heart I had. Maybe I'm just a weed in her garden too.

Cat plants a soft kiss on my lips, smile still in place.

"Do you regret it?"

/

**A/N: Do we ever really know someone? Can we ever be sure of who they are?**

**You might think your grandmother is a lovely old lady who enjoys knitting and bingo and making apple pie, when in reality she could be into hardcore S&M, stabbing the homeless, and making apple pie.  
**

**And she is, because I'm her accomplice for all those things.**

**What? It's damn fine apple pie.**

**Reviews are always appreciated. Your grandmother and I like to laugh at your grammar in them (she's really quite evil).**


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